As Sure As the Sun Will Rise
by Bubble Wrapped Kitty
Summary: AU. Desperate to get his daughter Isabelle out of London during the height of the German Blitz, Marcus Prentiss is forced to make a dangerous deal with the mysterious owner of Westmoor House. Trapped in the northern castle while her father is deployed, Isabelle learns that there is more to her dark host, and maybe even something worth staying for after all. HIATUS.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I own nothing but a deep fascination with Beauty & the Beast and an over-active imagination.

Title: As Sure As the Sun Will Rise

Rating: T for mild language and fantasy violence.

Summary: (Beauty and the Beast/AU) Desperate to get his eighteen-year-old daughter Isabelle out of London during the height of the German Blitz, army medic Marcus Prentiss makes a deal with the mysterious owner of Westmoor House. But there is more to Mr. Westmoor than they first realise; he holds a dark past and a dangerous curse. Trapped in the northern castle while her father tries to find a way to rescue her with the help of American volunteer Captain Grayson Allred, Isabelle slowly unravels the story of her secretive host and discovers that perhaps there is something worth staying for.

Updates every Tuesday!

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**Prologue**

_Bellingham, Northumberland, England – July 1940_

The wooden cart jostled along on the dirt track that cut its way casually through the towering green forest. Douglas Greer flicked the whip sharply in the air and the noise urged the old mare to quicken her pace. Not bothering to be subtle, the older man glanced sideways down at his passenger. He was a wee wisp of a thing, couldn't be more than eight years old, and he was huddled down in his wool coat as he stared around at the unfamiliar landscape with wide eyes. The boy – the tag attached to the buttonhole of his coat said his name was Henry – was supposedly some great-nephew of his masters, and he'd been evacuated to the countryside because of the war.

Douglas frowned distastefully. He wasn't looking forward to having a wee bairn around to look after. He was getting too far on in years to bother with the noisy things.

The mare snorted loudly and beside him Henry jumped in alarm. Douglas chuckled. "Twitchy wee mouse, aincha?" he remarked in amusement. The little thing didn't respond, simply gazing up at him with those bulbous eyes. Douglas mused that he looked a bit like a pale white frog. "Where you from 'gain, kid?"

Henry stared at him for so long Douglas thought he mightn't answer, and then he finally squeaked out, "Leeds, sir."

Douglas wrinkled his nose with disgust and didn't waste the energy in lowering his voice when he murmured, "City brat." He had never been fond of children, but he especially detested those from the cities. At least the ones who'd grown up in the country knew how to take care of themselves and their land. City brats were too soft, too _cultured_ to be worth anything. "Don't 'spect none of that posh rubbish out here," he chided the boy. "None of them tellies or moving pictures. Out here we do things proper. Live off the land, we do."

"In this big ol' wood?" Henry asked and his voice quavering as he looked up at the enormous trees. Douglas reckoned he'd probably never seen 'em so big before.

"Deep in," he agreed proudly. "Wee li'l collection o' houses and farms in the forest, that's where we be stayin'."

"What about the bears? And the wolves and such?" Henry asked with pure, unmasked terror.

Douglas snorted. "Bears an' wolves the least your problems, kid," he said simply. At the horror-struck look on Henry's face, Douglas grinned and continued. "Ain't you neva heard about The Beast of Bellingham Wood?"

"The _Beast_?" Henry echoed, his pitchy voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might call the monster to them.

"Well sure, everyone 'round here knows 'bout the Beast," Douglas said with an affirming nod. "Story goes there's a monster what lives in one o' the ol' manor houses deep in these 'ere woods. Westmoor House, it is. Just a few kilos from where we live. Says he used to be a man, once, long time ago, but his heart was so evil that the nature spirits turned him into a monster to match his soul. Covered in hair, with great big fangs and claws the size o' your wee hand. But the eyes, he still got the eyes o' a man. An' now he prowls these woods at night looking for wee lost souls to gobble up."

On the bumpy bench the little boy had cowered down inside of his coat until all Douglas could see was his enormous blue eyes and his forehead which has bleached to a ghostly white. Douglas barked out a laugh and urged the mare on quicker again. "We'll be comin' up on that house 'ere soon, there look," he said and pointed ahead to where a second trail broke away from the road they were on.

It was hardly more than a dusty narrow walking track, barely wide enough for a small cart to travel down, and the trees were woven together over it like the entrance to a gaping tunnel. An unnatural darkness seemed to hover over the area as if night had fallen early there. Douglas wouldn't admit it to the kid, but the place had always made chills race up the back of his neck whenever he passed it.

"That's where the monster lives?" Henry asked and instinctively shrunk closer to Douglas' side.

"Straight up there," Douglas concurred in a growl. He was having fun teasing the kid about the stupid old village story, but that didn't mean he wanted the kid curling up with him like a bleedin' cat. He nudged the kid back to his proper spot with his elbow. "If you look up there when we pass you can see a bit o' the house from 'ere."

The horse grew agitated as they reached the side path and she snorted, speeding up of her own accord for once. They hardly caught a glimpse of the house before the cart had passed, just enough to see a few dark, sinister details. The abandoned house was enormous and ancient, almost reminiscent of the castles that had once dotted the area, made of stones and wood so dark they were almost black. There were gargoyles on the towers and no life visible on the rolling green acres of land beyond the great black gate.

The house slid out of view as the cart rolled on and the boy let out a small squeak, huddling in on himself. "I don't want him to eat me," he muttered in fear.

"Then you keep an eye out, boy-o," Douglas said. "You don't need to worry about no wolves or bears, but you see a great hulkin' beast with the eyes of a man – sad, angry eyes bluer 'an the sky, they say – you run for your bloody life."

"You think he's sad?" the boy asked curiously, his head tipping to the side like a dog.

"I never seen him, but that's what they say 'round the village," Douglas said with a shrug. He honestly didn't think anyone had really seen that monster if it really existed. No one met up with a beast that big in the woods and lived to tell stories about it. "Old eyes full o' sad and pain and anger."

Henry had pulled the collar of his coat down slightly, looking as pensive as a wee little thing could, and then said, "I'll bet he's lonely. That's it. He pro'lly just wants mates, but no one will play with him 'cause he's scary looking." He looked up at Douglas with his eyes narrowed thoughtfully and asked, "Do you know how he can break the curse? The one the spirits put on him? Can't he turn back to normal?"

Douglas stared at the kid in awe and then chortled loudly. "This ain't no fairy tale, kid," he said, shaking his head. "Just a story 'bout a big beast that lives around here. It ain't lonely, and It ain't gonna be no-one's mate. It'll eat ya as soon as look at ya. There ain't no happy ever afters 'round here."

As the cart rounded the curve of the road into their little village, the sun was just beginning to set and the shadows had thickened on the trees. The lights from the cluster of houses and farms were the only things to break the settling darkness and Douglas felt relieved to be home. He was stiff from sitting on the cart bench all day and wanted nothing more than a nice glass of brandy before bed.

The missus of the house walked out to greet them as Douglas pulled the cart up beside the little manor and he tipped his head at her respectfully. " 'Ere he is, ma'am," he said, lifting the boy down from the cart and setting him on the grassy patch in front of the house.

"Thank you, Douglas," she said with a small smile. "Come along – Henry, was it? – let's get you settled."

"And don' forget, boy," Douglas called after them with a gruff laugh. "Keep an eye out for The Beast, yeah?"

In the distance, a long, mournful howl split through the growing darkness.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

_London, England – September 1940_

It was mid-day and the streets of east London were packed with people. Housewives were out doing their shopping and men in uniform patrolled the roads, occasionally stopping to flirt with the younger women that they passed. Despite the boarded windows and the perpetual gray haze that hung in the air, life continued to spin on in the downtrodden city.

Slipping out of the small flat she shared with her father, Isabelle Prentiss drew her coat tighter around her body to ward off the autumn chill. She locked up and then opened the book she had carried tuck beneath her arm, finding the place where she'd left off. By the time she rounded the corner, her nose was buried in the pages and her mind was in a world far away.

The people of the neighbourhood knew well enough to steer out of her way as she walked the habitual path to work. Although the locals knew not to waste their breath, a few of the soldiers called out friendly greetings to her that went ignored.

"Don't feel bad, mate," the man in charge of the fruit stand said to a dejected looking young private. "She's a bit of an odd one. If she's got a book in her hands, can't nobody get her 'ttention."

"It's true," the woman buying apples chimed in. "One time I seen her walk out right in front of a truck. Didn't even notice. Good thing that driver was lookin' or her poor father would be all on his own."

The soldier smiled, his eyes not leaving the girl as she wound her way expertly through the crowd. "I'll just have to catch her without a book then," he said confidently.

The older two exchanged glances and laughed. "Good luck with that," the man said.

Isabelle's mind was full of princesses and knights as she reached her destination. The bell above the bookshop door jingled brightly as she pushed it open with one hand, the other marking her place in the pages. "Mr. Cartwright, I'm here," she called into the quiet store, her voice echoing off through the rows of shelves.

"Ah, Belle, lovely," came the reply. "They brought by another box of those pamphlets, would you mind putting them out?"

Isabelle crossed to the desk tucked into the corner of the store and set down her worn book. Behind the counter was a little box filled with folded sheets of paper covered in bold prints. She couldn't help but frown as she read their headlines.

**_Bomb Shelter Necessities_**

**_When You Hear the Sirens..._**

**_Always Remember your Gas Mask!_**

It was not a good time to be in Britain.

Isabelle took the stacks of papers and began arranging them in the little rack by the front desk that had previously housed the rare and special books. Those, to her chagrin, had been banished to a shelf much farther back, safely tucked where they were less likely to be stolen. The hard times had left people desperate for the money to support their families. More than one place had been looted recently. She felt sure the only reason they'd been spared so far was that people undervalued books.

"Oh Belle, this war is going to put us out of business if it keeps up." Mr. Cartwright emerged from between the shelves, wiping his dusty hands on his trousers. "No one's interested in books when there's a war on our doorstep. Haven't sold a single thing so far today. Only person who's spent more than thirty seconds was that little council boy who delivered the pamphlets, and I reckon it was just to get out of the cold for a minute."

"Things will pick up," Isabelle said reassuringly.

Mr. Cartwright ran a hand back through his prematurely greying hair and huffed. "At this rate, the only way we'll sell a thing is if we start printing some German dictionaries."

"Don't talk like that," she said indignantly.

"It's hard not to think it sometimes," the older man said, but his bitter anger had turned to resignation. "Nazis on our borders, bombs falling from the skies, and all our families ripped apart." Isabelle set a comforting hand on his arm; his children had been evacuated to the country when the bombings had started to keep them safe, and letters were slow in coming. "I'm beginning to wonder if this madness will never end."

"We will win this," Isabelle said certainly. Mr. Cartwright raised an eyebrow at her questioningly. "You've read the books. No matter how hard it gets, good always wins in the end."

The bookkeeper chuckled and squeezed her shoulder fondly. "Oh how would it be if we could all see the world through your eyes, dove," he said with a smile. "We'd all be the better for it, surely." He sighed wearily and then shook his head. "If you'll watch the counter, I'll be back in the office. I need to balance the books and see if we're going to last another month. Call if you need me."

"Yes, sir," she said cheerfully with a mock salute. She skipped around to take a seat on the stool behind the front desk, and the moment her employer had vanished into his office she retrieved her book, diving straight back into the adventure. The slow business might be bad for the shop, but it left her with plenty of time for reading, which was her favourite pastime in any case.

The hours passed by in a blur for Isabelle as the sun crept down toward the horizon. She only withdrew from her book whenever the bell signalled that someone had come into the store. For the most part people simply browsed wistfully and then left, sometimes collecting a pamphlet on the way. Elderly Mrs. Tyler came in and bought an old copy of a Dickens' and then stayed to talk to her for a while, telling Isabelle about the latest letter she'd received from her sons who were currently deployed somewhere on the south coast. Closer to sunset a pair of soldiers bought a cheap American novel, although they had seemed much more interested in her than the book. It took a long string of polite rejections and dismissals before they finally got the hint and left, forgetting the book they'd paid for on the counter.

She had only just gotten back into her book when suddenly a large hand covered the pages. "Hello there, darlin'."

Isabelle bit back her exasperated sigh. Only one man interrupted her that rudely. And of course his American drawl was very distinctive in the city. Putting on a neutral smile, she looked up. "Good day, Captain Allred."

The man across the desk from her was, without a doubt, very handsome. His dark hair was combed back meticulously from his chiselled face. He was tall and trim, and he cut an impressive figure in his Royal Air Force volunteers uniform, a heavy wool greatcoat hanging from his broad shoulders to his polished boots. His smile was charming and his ice-blue eyes were dazzling.

The only downfall to Captain Grayson Allred was his personality.

"How has your day been?" he asked, not removing his hand from her book as if he was afraid she would disappear into it if he let it go.

"It's been fine," she answered diplomatically.

"So, what do you say you come with me to the Last Chance tomorrow night?" he asked, propping his elbows on the counter and leaning forward into her space. "You know a lot of us are being shipped out the next morning. It'd be real sweet of ya to come and gimme a proper send-off."

Isabelle had to resist yet another sigh. He had been badgering her for days to be his date to the Last Chance dance, where many of the men in town would be enjoying their last night before being sent into battle. Even though the Yankee volunteer hadn't been scheduled to ship off yet, he was making rather a big deal of the dance.

"Thank you for the offer, Captain, but I was going to stay in for the night," she said.

The Captain's smile flickered for the briefest moment. "Aw c'mon, you can spend one night away from those books," he cajoled. "I'd love to give you a spin 'round the dance floor."

"I was actually going to spend the night with my father," she lied. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. She figured that she most like would be spending the night in with her father, her reading while he worked on his little inventions. It wasn't a definite plan, it was just the way they passed most evenings when Mark Prentiss was home.

"The mad tinker?" the Captain teased. Isabelle scowled and he hastily stifled his laugh, back-peddling. "Ol' Prentiss is one of the boys, bring him along with you. Couldn't hurt to get 'im away from his machines and meet a lady, could it?"

Isabelle had opened her mouth to answer when suddenly a wail cut through the ait. They both instinctively tensed. Warning sirens. There were Germans in the sky.

"Belle!" Mr. Cartwright shouted for her from the back.

"C'mon, Izzy," the Captain said, stepping passed the counter and looping an arm around her waist. She barely had time to snatch up her book before he steered her forcefully toward the bookkeeper's frantic voice. They met him in a row of history books.

"Oh good, there you are," Mr. Cartwright said relief, hardly acknowledging the solider beside her. "Come on, into the shelter." He led them out of the back of the store and toward the chemist's shop two doors over, the closest place with a proper shelter.

"Damn bloody Nazis," the chemist, Mr. O'Brien, said by way of greeting when they slipped into the basement of his store. "Pardon the language, miss," he added as an afterthought, inclining his head to Isabelle.

Giving him a soft smile – she had heard people say much harsher things in the last few years – she sat down on an upturned crate. Across from her was a middle-aged man who must have been in the shop when the siren went off, and he was fidgeting with his handkerchief and pacing a short line against the wall. The bookshop owner had crossed over to talk to Mr. O'Brien in a hushed voice, looking grave.

To her great annoyance, the Captain flipped over a bucket and sat down beside her, far closer than she was comfortable with. Trying to escape him, she opened her book and scoured the pages for the place where she'd left off when the American had shown up in the shop. He was apparently having none of it as he leaned back and wedged his arm between her shoulders and the wall.

"Why are you so fascinated by that thing, Izzy?" the Captain asked loudly in her ear.

"Isabelle," she reminded him gently but he ignored her and continued.

"There's plenty of people to talk to if you're bored, you don't need to hide in those books all the time," he said. "I know you're shy and you're scared of everything that's going on, but it isn't that hard to get out and talk to people. The world's not as bad as it seems."

Isabelle gave a humourless laugh and shook her head. "That's not the point at all," she explained as patiently as she could. "It's not about the people or anything that's happening. It's about being in a place that's not here for a while. About getting away from this boring life and having adventures. Like here is so – provincial. Everything is the same; sleeping, working, eating, hiding, fighting. When I read books, I get to be a part of adventures so much bigger than this stupid little city and this horrid war. Noble knights and warriors, magic and monsters, and the sort of love stories that never happen in real life. It's an escape."

The Captain regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and she thought that maybe, just maybe, she had gotten through to him this time. And then, "That's what they make the picture films for."

"It's not the same," she said, a bit dejectedly. No one understood; they never did. Not even Mr. Cartwright understood completely. It wasn't that there wasn't enough going on out in the world for her. It was that she wasn't allowed to be a part of any of it. She wanted to be out there, experiencing things and making a difference in the world. She wanted to do so much more with her life than just being a shopgirl. She wanted an adventure.

"And if you wanted a little romance," the Captain went on with a cheeky grin, "then all you had to do was say so, doll. Cap'n Allred at your service." He winked and tipped an over-dramatic salute at her.

Isabelle fought the urge to roll her eyes and settled for shrugging his arm off her shoulders on the pretence of adjusting her coat. Unfortunately he simply waited until she had stopped moving and then replaced his arm. There was a distant rumble and everyone in the cellar froze, waiting expectantly. Although none of them would say it, they were all thinking the same thing; would tonight be the night?

Isabelle looked down at the book in her lap, not able to keep seeing the anxiety on the others' faces. She traced her fingers along the elaborate rose pattern that had been pressed into the aged leather cover. The action always soothed her and it didn't fail her this time, letting her tune out the worry and fear and even the annoyance of the Captain's possessive arm across her back.

The building abruptly trembled around them, accompanied by a deafening blast. Bottles and jars rattled off the shelves and cracked on the ground. The pacing man lost his footing and crumpled into a stack of boxes, and the Captain hastily shoved Isabelle down, shielding her body with his own. They tensely rode out the series of concussive vibrations and it was several minutes of silence later before any of them dared move.

"Bloody hell, that was a bit close," Mr. O'Brien gasped out, brushing off the fine layer of dust that had drifted down from the trembling floor above them.

"What if dey come back?" the other man asked in a distinctly French accent once he'd scrambled free from the piles of collapsed boxes. "Do you think dey will hit 'ere again?"

No one knew how to answer the man's frantic questions so they stayed silent, waiting. Although they'd sat up again, the Captain didn't release his grip on Isabelle and for once she didn't mind. Those bombs had fallen awfully close, definitely somewhere in their neighbourhood. She couldn't help but wonder who had been caught below it. Which of the familiar faces might she never see again?

Another horrifying thought struck her in that moment that made her blood run cold. Where was her father? Was he still at work, safely on the base? Or was he at home in their flat? Had he been caught somewhere in between? Had he been caught in the blast? He was all she had left in the world. If anything happened to him...

A second set of blasts, further away than the last, made the walls shudder. The Frenchman on the other side of the room looked like he was on the verge of panic, his breath coming in short bursts as he clutched at a fine chain around his throat. Isabelle shook off the Captain's arm, ignoring his attempt to pull her back down, and walked cautiously over to the huddled man. "What's your name?" she asked gently.

The man's wide eyes surveyed her for a second before he answered. "Adrian. Adrian Roberts."

"Hi Adrian," she said. "My name's Isabelle. You mind if I sit with you?" Adrian shook his head, looking at her uncertainly. Isabelle sat down on the floor beside him, tucking her worn blue dress in around her knees as she folded her legs beneath her. "Do you live around here?"

"Two streets away," he answered, still fidgeting.

"What about your family?" she continued, trying to distract him from the noises outside.

"No family," he said, a bit flatly. "I come 'ere alone."

"I don't have much family either," she continued conversationally. "Just my father and I." Adrian still looked terrified, so she changed the subject. "Do you like to read?"

"You do," he responded, finally glancing at her. "I 'eard you before, talking to 'im." He gestured vaguely at the Captain, who was watching them intently with his elbows resting on his knees.

"I love books," Isabelle agreed enthusiastically. "This one here, it's my favourite. _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen. It's a romance, about not taking people at first impressions." She brushed her fingers over the embellished rose again. "My mother gave me this one. She used to read it to me when I was young. Do you have a favourite book?"

"I read a book, years ago. _Les Trois Mousquetaires_," he said fondly. "I liked it very much."

"The musketeers? Oh that's a good one," she concurred. "The musketeers were very brave. My favourite is Aramis. Which one is yours?"

They passed the time in companionable conversation, talking in depth about Dumas' musketeer trilogy and Isabelle suggested several more books he might like as well. Adrian gradually relaxed as they talked, all of the nervousness leaving him except in the hand that was clutched near his throat.

"What is that you're holding?" she asked during a lull in the conversation.

Adrian hesitated awkwardly before opening his hand to reveal the golden six-point star on his palm. Suddenly his intense fear of the Germans, his sadness about having no family with him, all made sense. Isabelle smiled at him comfortingly and said, "It's lovely. What about Shakespeare? Have you read any of him? Mr. Cartwright here has read every one of them. He's quite the expert."

"I wouldn't say expert, quite," the older man interjected but he was beaming proudly.

"Oh tosh," Isabelle countered. "All those things you can recite from memory. That whole bit from _Romeo and Juliet_. Have you read _Romeo and Juliet_, Adrian? It's beautiful."

Adrian was smiling when she turned back to him, and she didn't miss the gratitude in his eyes that she hadn't pushed the topic of his religion, like she was sure so many people would in this climate. She touched his forearm reassuringly and then prompted him into speaking again.

They had only just gotten going – Adrian had admitted that he'd never read any Shakespeare's plays, so Mr. Cartwright had launched into explaining the plots of many of them, including several dramatic monologues – when another loud sound split the air. Instead of the fear from before, this one made everyone relax gratefully: the all-clear sirens.

"About time," the chemist said tersely but beneath that they could all detect the relief they shared at the welcome sound. Adrian murmured a string of French that Isabelle didn't completely understand, but his tone was enough for her to tell it was a thankful prayer. The Captain stood and offered a hand to her, and she accepted his help up. They walked ahead of the others back up into the chemist's shop, where things had fallen off shelves and counters but appeared to be mostly intact, and then out into the street.

There were heavy clouds of smoke in the air, making it difficult to breathe, and the orange glow of a fire was reflecting off the underside of the dark skies. In the distance were the shouts of people who were tending to the destruction. Isabelle mentally sighed in relief when she realised that the fire was in the opposite direction from their flat and the base where her father worked. He was most likely safe.

"All this mess to clean up," Mr. O'Brien muttered angrily, from the doorway of his store. "Gonna take all night to get this cleared up."

"Don't take too long," the Captain said, glancing at his watch. "It's almost curfew."

"I'll worry about me, Yankee boy, you just get the missus home safe," the surly Irishman responded and then he nodded a quick good-night to everyone else and disappeared back into the store.

"Good-night, Mr. Cartwright," Isabelle said. "I'll be in early tomorrow to help tidy up the store." There was always some rearranging that had to be done after a bombing. "And good-night, Adrian. You should come by the store and I can show you some of those books I was talking about, yeah?"

"That would be _magnifique_," Adrain replied with a smile. He stooped to kiss her cheek in farewell and then turned to set off down the street.

Isabelle pivoted on her heel and, her thoughts hopeful, took off running for home.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"Bells!"

Isabelle had never been more excited to hear her father's voice. Through a gap in the small crowd of people who had dared venture out, she caught sight of his familiar figure and a smile broke out across her face. "Papa!"

"Oh Bells, thank the Lord," Mark Prentiss gasped out gratefully and his relief showed on his lined face. He was hardly taller than his daughter and now a bit on the portly side, the stomach he had acquired with age stretching the buttons on his army medic uniform. Although he had no hair on the top of his head, he sported a thick dark moustache that he was particularly proud of.

The father and daughter jogged the last few metres and met on the pavement. Isabelle immediately threw her arms around his neck. Mark hugged her back so tightly her feet momentarily left the ground.

"I was so worried," he said breathlessly, and when he drew back she could see a wild light in his eyes. "When I heard that bomb come down so close, I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm okay, Papa," she said reassuringly, knowing exactly what he had felt.

"Yes, yes you are," he agreed after giving her a quick once-over. He nodded as if trying to convince himself, and then frowned up at the smoky sky. "Come on, let's get home." Isabelle slipped her arm through his and he steered them back toward the flat, winding their way through the clusters of people who had come out to inspect the damage. Neither of them spoke again until they were safely shut up at home, and the lamps lit in the main room of their small flat.

Mark sighed heavily and stroked his moustache, a nervous tic he had had for as long as Isabelle could remember. "Bells," he started and the anxiety behind the pet name caught her focus. "I've got to get you out of this city."

"Papa," she countered immediately. "I've told you before, I'm not leaving you."

"I'm being deployed," Mark admitted in a rush.

Isabelle stopped short, looking at her father in horror. "I thought they weren't going to ship you out," she said. "You're just supposed to stay here and take care of the ones who get brought home."

"The war isn't going well," he replied. "They need all of us that they can get. Those boys out there need me."

"Then I'm coming as well," Isabelle said decisively. "I've learnt enough from you, I could be a nurse. I can come and help."

"No!" The ferocity of Mark's response startled her into silence. His expression softened. "I can't have you out in that place, Bells. I won't be able to think straight with you in that sort of danger. You are all I have left in the world, and that's why I have to keep you safe."

"And you're all I have," Isabelle said passionately and she felt the tears she was trying to hold back choking her, strangling her voice. "I don't want to lose you. You can't go."

"I have to," Mark said and his voice was thick as well. He sat down on the settee beside her and wrapped her in his arms. "I leave in a month. But before I go, I'm going to find a safe place for you to stay until this is all over. I have a cousin – well a second cousin – up in Northumberland. I'll start there."

"I don't want to go," Isabelle said, feeling like a petulant child even as the words left her mouth. "London is my home."

"I know," her father said soothingly, stroking her back. "But it's just for now, I promise. I'm only supposed to be gone for a year, and then I'll come back and be with you again. And as soon as this war is over, we'll come home."

Isabelle let out a defeated sob, crumpling into her father's chest. He held her until her tears had softened, and then tucked her into bed with a tender kiss on the brow. She fell asleep clinging to a stuffed rabbit that he had given to her as a child, one that still smelt like him; linen and machine oil and those cigarettes he'd always fancied back before rationing.

First thing in the morning, Isabelle accompanied her father to the train station. It was nearly empty in the gray dawn light, with only a few thread-bare stragglers and a handful of men in uniform on patrol. They lingered on the platform as they waited for the whistle of the train, and Mark tugged on the end of his moustache before speaking.

"I'll write to you every day," he said and even his soft voice seemed unnaturally loud in the stifling quiet. "To let you know where I'm at. And as soon as I've got things sorted, I'll send for you." Isabelle nodded glumly. "Keep yourself out of trouble while I'm gone," he continued. "And maybe enjoy yourself a bit, would you?" he added with a soft smile. "Visit with your friends, maybe go to one of those dances that American captain is always inviting you to."

Isabelle fought the urge to wrinkle her nose at the suggestion, knowing her father meant well. "Papa," she started and then winced at how hoarse she sounded. She cleared her throat but before she could say anything more the train's whistle split the air, a harsh shriek that made them both jump. "No," she whispered. He couldn't be leaving already.

"I've got to go, love," he said, his eyes trailing over the other passengers that were slipping through the train's open doors. "Take care of yourself, Bells. It'll only be a few days, a week at most, and then I'll see you again. Yeah?"

In response, she hugged her father again and clung to him. Even a mere week would be the longest she'd spent away from her father since her mother had passed away. The knowledge that the week apart would be followed by an entire year brought a whole new wave of tears to the surface of her aching eyes. "Hey now, shh," Mark said comfortingly but he was holding on just as tightly. "Just a few days, love, I promise. You can handle that, my brave little girl."

"I'll miss you, Papa," Isabelle choked out.

"And I'll miss you, my Jingle Bells," he replied and she gave a watery chuckle at the pet name he hadn't called her since she was a little girl. "But you're a strong girl. A strong woman," he amended. "The strongest woman I've ever known, just like your mum. And we'll be all right."

The train whistled again and the two reluctantly broke apart. Mark drank in the sight of his daughter's face, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear, and then he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "A few days," he said, like a promise.

"A few days," she echoed with a weak smile.

The train groaned and then began inching forward, and Mark squeezed her hand one last time before jumping on board. He hung out of the door and called back through the smoke, "I love you, Bells."

"Love you, Papa!" she shouted over the whine of the steel wheels. She raced along with the train until it reached the edge of the platform, and then stood waving until her father's figure had shrunk into nothing. Shivering, Isabelle drew her kerchief from a pocket in her coat and dabbed at her itching eyes. For a few minutes she just stood there, staring out at the streak of smoke left behind by the train, and then finally she grew too cold and walked away from the platform.

The rest of the city was slowly coming to life as she made her way back toward the bookshop. People kept up as if nothing of great importance had happened the night before, apart from some broken rubble and a surplus of soldiers on the streets. Isabelle surveyed the people around her curiously, wondering when everyone had grown so weather-beaten and melancholy, and then realised that it was the first time she had walked to work without her nose buried in a book in ages. How had things gotten so miserable without her noticing?

She noticed that she was getting a lot of strange looks from the people she passed, some curious and some sympathetic. As she walked by the baker's shop the man called out an awkward, "You all right there, Miss Prentiss?"

"Fine, thank you, Mr. Doherty," she said and offered him a weak smile. He returned it with a somewhat encouraging nod and then went back to arranging the sign in front of his shop. Isabelle wrapped her coat more tightly around herself and kept her head lowered slightly as she finished her walk to the bookstore, not meeting any of the sad looks the people of the neighbourhood were giving her.

The bell jangled as she slipped inside the store and spotted Mr. Cartwright rearranging a stack of books on the shelf beside the desk that must have fallen during the air raid. He glanced over his shoulder with a smile on his face, but the moment his eyes landed on her his expression switched instantly to concern. "Belle, what's wrong?" he asked, dropping his armful of books on the counter and coming over to her. "Is your father all right?"

Isabelle had wanted to be strong, but the moment her father was mentioned it all came out of her in a rush. She told her employer what her father had decided the night before and his morning departure. When she reached the end she drew out her handkerchief again to wipe her traitorous eyes.

"Oh Belle," Mr. Cartwright said, his old face etched with sadness, and to her surprise he quite suddenly drew her into an embrace. "You poor sweet thing. I am going to miss you terribly. You're like another daughter to me, you know." Isabelle smiled into his coat, breathing in the comforting scent of books. "But your father is right. This city isn't fit for a woman right now, not even one so brave as you."

"I wish I could just stay here, in the shop," Isabelle admitted as she drew back from the older man's arms. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and looked around fondly at the leather- and cloth-bound tomes. "If we aren't safe in books, where are we? What if the new place doesn't have books?"

"It'll be an adventure though," Mr. Cartwright pointed out with a knowing smile. "Just like you've always dreamt of, yeah?"

That brought a genuine smile to Isabelle's face. "Not quite what I imagined," she said, "but it'll do for now."

"There's a brave lass," Mr. Cartwright said and chuckled. The bell above the door rang and both of them looked over to see Adrian Roberts tentatively entering the store.

"Adrian," Isabelle said brightly. "I'm glad you came!" The Frenchman provided a welcome distraction and she passed more than an hour showing him through a long string of books that she thought he'd enjoy. Adrian was friendly and eager, and by the time he left to go to work for the day with a promise to return the next morning, Isabelle was feeling much better.

She could do this. She could be strong for them all.

Just before suppertime, when her shift at the shop was nearly finished, the Captain made another appearance. "Hello there, Izzy," he greeted cheerfully. "You took off so fast last night I didn't even get to say goodnight."

"Sorry," Isabelle said, half-sincerely. Obnoxious as he might be, she still had her manners after all. "I wanted to make sure my father was all right."

"Course you did," the Captain replied. "Anyway, I came by because the Last Chance is tonight, and I'd really love to take you."

Isabelle had the dismissal on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitated. This was what her father had wanted for her, to go out and enjoy a night. Besides, this might be the last opportunity she had to spend time with the others from her neighbourhood before she was sent away up north. Her last chance for a proper London dance. So she swallowed back her first response and nodded.

"Thank you, I'd like that," she agreed.

The Captain seemed momentarily gobsmacked, and then his grin broke out in full. "I knew you'd come 'round," he said enthusiastically. "All right, I'll come by 'round seven to escort you then." There was something slightly lecherous as he eyed her one last time. "I'll see you tonight then, Izzy."

And before she could remind him for the millionth time that her name was not _Izzy_, he turned on the heel of his boots and marched out of the door with his head held high.

"A dance, eh?" Mr. Cartwright asked from where he had been organising one of the bookshelves. "Well that sounds like fun."

"I hope so," Isabelle said honestly. And she truly did. She hoped that every assumption she had made about the American captain was wrong, and that she might genuinely enjoy her night. She wanted to believe in the goodness of people, even in dark times like these. And she really didn't want to face spending the night home alone without her father.

So when she left the shop an hour later, she went back to the flat and sought out one of her best dresses, tucking away in the back of the wardrobe. It had been a while since she'd had occasion to bring it out, and she'd almost forgotten how much she loved that shade of emerald green. She put on the soft cotton dress and curled her hair and even applied a bit of the lipstick her father had bought her once before realising that she didn't care for such things. As she surveyed herself in the mirror she felt a bit foolish, like a child playing dress-up, but she didn't have any more time to consider it before there was a knock at the door to her flat.

Donning a thick white cardigan, she hurried over and opened the door to find the frame filled with the Captain. He was dressed as usual in his uniform and great coat, his hat tucked in its typical place beneath his arm, although he seemed to have put an extra polish on his buttons and boots. He surveyed her up and down a bit too deliberately and then flashed her a wide grin. "Well look at you, doll," he said appreciatively. "Aren't you a pretty little thing?"

Isabelle felt her cheeks redden at his obvious staring and she smiled awkwardly. "Thank you," she replied. "You look nice as well."

"Always do," he said with a chuckle and winked. He put his hat onto his head and tipped it to a jaunty angle, and then offered his arm. "How's about we go make the rest of London jealous, eh?" With a timid nod, Isabelle looped her arm through his and allowed him to lead her to the dancehall, listening as he recounted stories of his various successes in training sessions and battles.

By the time they'd entered the room filled with energetic big band music and dozens of young couples spiraling across the dance-floor, the Captain had yet to talk about anything but his own accomplishments and Isabelle was starting to regret her decision to accompany him. He put a possessive around her waist and steered her to the centre of the hall, and swept her into a waltz without even letting her catch her breath.

"So Izzy, did I tell you about the time I took down those German fighter planes over the South coast?" the Captain asked, drawing her closer to his body then she was comfortable with. He didn't give her a chance to inform him that he had already recounted the story twice before barreling on proudly.

Isabelle sighed heavily. It was going to be a long night.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

"That boorish, brainless..._ugh_!"

Isabelle was raging, the long rant spewing out as she paced an agitated like in front of the bookshop desk. She had been quietly stewing until Mr. Cartwright had asked how her night out had gone.

"Surely it wasn't so bad," Mr. Cartwright suggested cautiously. It was rare to see Isabelle angry, since she had always been such an even-tempered girl.

"He was horrible," she replied. "I've never seen anyone so selfish and arrogant in my life. Rude and dismissive to everyone. You would think a volunteer soldier would have more class and compassion, but he's obviously just interested in the glory and the attention. And the way he speaks to women - " Isabelle broke off with a disgusted noise, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis.

"He wasn't rude to you?" Mr. Cartwright interjected.

"Not outright," she countered with a huff. "But he tugged me around after him like a dog on a chain all night. He hardly even let me get a word in at all, and he chased off every other man who so much as looked at me. Not that it stopped him from eyeing up every lady that walked passed us, of course. I got no say in anything. It was like he thought he owned me."

"Well I'm sure he didn't mean it that way," Mr. Cartwright offered diplomatically. "He fancies you. I reckon he was just trying to show you that."

"Oh undoubtedly," Isabelle said sarcastically. "Do you know what he did when I told him where my father had gone? He asked me to marry him!" The older man's jaw fell open. "Not even properly either. He said that if I was looking for a place to live, he would marry me and send me to America to live with his family. That'd he'd like to have a pretty little thing like me for a wife."

"Isabelle, I don't think he meant it - "

"And there's that as well," she added. "He always calls me Izzy. I hate being called Izzy, and I tell him that all the time, but he never listens."

Mr. Cartwright walked around the desk and placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her relentless fidgeting. "Breathe," he suggested gently. Isabelle let out a heavy breath, the tension in her shoulders deflated. "Perhaps you should take the day off," he said. "Go home and relax for a bit."

"No, that's alright," she said quickly, thinking of the dismal, empty flat waiting for her at home. "I'd rather stay, really. Get my mind off it all."

"Very well," he agreed with a small nod. "Why don't you sort through those shelves in the back then, if you want to keep busy? I can watch the front desk." Even though he didn't say it, she caught the hidden meaning in the gesture. He was offering to run interference for her with the Captain.

"Thank you," she said gratefully. He smiled at her kindly and she hurried off to the back of the store, hiding among the shelves. She spent the rest of the afternoon sorting through the rows of books, rearranging ones that had been misplaced by browsing customers. When she heard the Captain's distinctive drawl she retreated to the back room as Mr. Cartwright fended off the American. While she was waiting, she pulled out her mother's book and settled in among the boxes to read.

Elizabeth Bennett was just rejecting the proposal from Mr. Collins when the door to the storage room opened. "Ah, there you are," Mr. Cartwright said. Isabelle blinked as she was pulled back to reality. "_Pride and Prejudice_ again?" the bookkeeper asked with a small laugh.

Isabelle smiled as she closed the book in her lap. "It's my favourite book," she said. "I love the way Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy hate each other at first but then discover that there is so much more. You have these two different men, Wickham and Darcy, and you realise that they are exactly the opposite of what she thought at first. It's so beautiful."

"Do you think perhaps you've made a mistake about Captain Allred?" Mr. Cartwright asked but there didn't seem to be much conviction in his voice.

"No, Captain Allred is more like George Wickham, undoubtedly," Isabelle insisted. "He is beautiful and charming on the outside and it deceives people, but beneath it is nothing but greed and ambition."

"Very well, Miss Bennett," Mr. Cartwright said with a cheeky grin. "I was just going to let you know that your gentleman suitor has left, so you are safe to come back out again. Although we are nearly through for the day now."

"Oh, of course," she agreed distractedly. Still carrying the aged book, she followed the shop owner back out to the front desk. After she had taken her usually place at the desk, he returned to the back office to finish the day's paperwork. It only took minutes before she was once again embroiled in the romantic affairs of the Bennett girls.

Isabelle let herself into the quiet flat at the end of the evening - she had stayed late at the shop to avoid having to spend much time in the empty home - and slowly began unbuttoning her coat. She had only gotten down two buttons before she spotted a small dingy envelope on the floor just inside of the door. A hopeful grin flashed across her face and she hastily stooped to pick it up. Her heart leapt when she recognised the familiar print on the front. Her father.

Forgetting about taking off her coat, she dropped down onto the worn settee and tore open the top of the envelope. There was a small folded slip of paper inside and she pulled it out and unfolded it, her eyes scanning the scratchy print eagerly.

_My dear Isabelle,_

_I just got off the train here in Northumberland. The weather is much cooler here, but it's lovely and clear. I'm taking a quick chance to write this while I wait for a carriage that will take me to Wark where my cousin lives. I should be there by nightfall. I will write again tomorrow when I've arranged everything with them._

Isabelle ran her fingers over the wrinkled paper and smiled. It was short and hardly informative, but it was at least nice to know that he had arrived safely. At that moment he was likely already settled in at his cousin's house, enjoying a warm cuppa and waiting for her to arrive. The thought was comforting and she smiled, hugging the letter to her chest.

She went to sleep that night with the letter resting open on her bedside table where she could see it and anticipation in her chest at the promise of another letter coming very soon.

The entire following day she found it difficult to concentrate. Even reading didn't provide the same comfort that it usually did, and she hardly made any progress in the book because she kept getting distracted by thoughts of her father. She didn't even put any thought into avoiding the Captain, which was how he managed to corner her at the desk in the early afternoon.

"Good day, Izzy," he said cheerfully as he marched in through the front door. "I missed you yesterday. Your boss said you'd taken the day off but you didn't answer your door when I went by."

Isabelle smiled tightly. "I just needed some time alone," she lied.

"Yeah, I suppose it was quite the evening, wasn't it?" the Captain said with a roguish grin. "I sent a telegraph along to my mother and sister this morning, I'm sure they'll be delighted to meet you."

"Pardon?" Isabelle asked in surprise, glancing up from disinterestedly examining the desktop. He couldn't possibly mean what she thought he meant...

"Well it was only fair that I let them know you were coming before you arrive, wouldn't you say," he said nonchalantly. "Now, it'll take a few days before they can get the marriage license filled out, of course. But I've got a friend who can get you through the immigration easily enough. You should be settled down in good ol' New York City within a month."

"I'm not marrying you," she said in surprise. The Captain frowned. "I never said I'd marry you."

"Of course you did," he countered. "We talked about it last night. Don't worry about it, I know you're nervous, but you'll make a great wife. And once this war is over, we'll get settled into my house and start on a proper family. You'll wear the best clothes and go to parties and the theatre. You won't have to read those boring books anymore to keep yourself going. And we'll have a whole mess of strong boys, just like me. A half dozen of 'em, at least."

"Well that sounds like it would be good for you, but that's just not the sort of life I want," she protested as gently as she could. "I wouldn't be suited for that sort of life. I just don't think I would be the right girl for you."

The Captain chuckled softly and gave her a patronising smile. "It's a shame you don't understand what a beautiful woman you are, Izzy," he said. "I know you might not believe it, but this is the life that a woman like you deserves."

"Oh I hardly think I deserve a man like you, Captain," she replied and he thankfully missed the slight hint of sarcasm that has slipped into her words. This man was complete rubbish at taking hints. Floundering for any other way to shake him off, she added, "But really, I ought to write to my father first and let him know about all of this."

"Right, of course," the Captain agreed enthusiastically. "Wouldn't want to do anything without him here. Need ol' man Prentiss to give you away." He reached across the counter and took her hand in his his, pressing a lingering, damp kiss to her knuckles. Then he flashed her a disarming wink and left the shop. Isabelle waited until the door had shut behind him, and then she let out a loud groan, her head falling forward to land on the desktop with a dull thunk.

When the end of her shift at the shop came she left in a hurry. Bundled up against the chill, she very nearly jogged in her haste to get home and her cold fingers fumbled with the key to the flat. She shoved the door open and immediately saw the folded letter on the floor, where it had fallen when the postman had shoved it through the slot in the door. Grinning, she picked it up and broke the seal.

_Dear Isabelle,_

_I arrived at my cousins' this morning. Things aren't looking well. Margaret is very ill and they are moving closer to London so she can be near a good doctor. But Richard says that there are more houses north of the town that might be able to help. I'll start checking there tomorrow. I'll write again tomorrow, surely I'll have found a place for you by then. I miss you, Bells._

Isabelle stared at the letter uncertainly. Moving away to stay with some relatives that she hadn't seen since she was a small child was bad enough, but to live in the house of a complete stranger? Part of her was beginning to desperately hope that her father wouldn't be able to find a place for her before he had to return for his deployment. Then at least she would be able to stay in her home.

Unless the Captain had his way, at least. She wished she really could write to her father about the whole situation, but it wouldn't do any good. He would've moved on long before the letter reached him. And while she knew he meant well, she was half-worried that he would try to convince her to take the Captain's proposal just so she would be safe in America. Maybe going away up north really would be the better option.

None of it mattered now though. For now, the only thing she could do was wait.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

_Bellingham, Northumberland - That same morning_

Mark Prentiss pulled his ragged coat tighter around his body as he walked the long road through the forest north of Bellingham. He had spent an entire day asking around the city but had no luck. It seemed that most of the people who had room in their houses for guests had already been employed by the government to house children. Near the end of the evening, someone had suggested that he try the next town north, a place called Hareshaw that was tucked away in the forest alongside the river.

He had set out first thing the following morning, after dropping off his latest letter to Isabelle with the postman. It was chilly out in the early morning air, and he was forced to make the trip at a walk, since he hadn't been able to find anyone to give him a ride. As he'd walked he had hoped that someone might drive by that he could hitch a ride from, but it was well past noon and he'd had no luck so far. It was starting to become a theme of his trip, having no luck. It had been such a disappointment to find out about his cousin Margaret's illness, both because he worried about her health and because he had so desperately hoped that they would be able to take Isabelle in under their roof. Since then, it had been five days of trekking through towns and asking around for any chance that he would be able to find a place for his daughter.

At first when the evacuations had started, he had been grateful that his little Bells was eighteen and had been considered too old to be sent away with the children. He didn't want to bear the idea of having her away from him. Since the death of his wife, Isabelle had become his world and he didn't want to be separated from her. That had all changed when the bombings had started.

Usually she had been home with him when they hit and he could at least be assured that she was safe. Then that night had come, when she had still been at the bookstore when the sirens went off. He had spent a terrified few hours in the bomb cellar that the people of his building shared, wondering where she was and if he would see her again. The bomb that fell into their neighbourhood was the most agonising moment of his life.

He had been thinking about having her evacuated for the past week, ever since he had been told that he would be sent to the battlefield to tend the injured soldiers on the front lines. It was one thing to have her in the city while he was there to watch over her, but with him across the channel, his only concern was her safety. The bombing had only strengthened his resolve and by the time the all-clear siren had rang out through the city he had the plan settled in his mind.

Isabelle had reacted exactly the way he had expected her to. She had her mother's spirit, and he had known that she wouldn't take to the idea of running away and hiding. He had been dreading the idea of her wanted to go serve along with the other women since the moment she'd come of age. Part of him was afraid that she would sneak away to join them while he was gone, but he quelled that voice. She was a good girl and she wouldn't lie to him like that.

It was getting late into the afternoon before he heard a cart rumbling up the road behind him and he stepped over to the side of the road, waving down the driver. The cart came to a slow stop beside him and Mark walked up to the bench at the front. "I don't suppose you could offer me a ride, could you?" he asked.

The older woman on the bench smiled and patted the spot beside her. "Where are you headed?"

"A place called Haresaw," Mark said, climbing up into the cart and sitting down. "Do you know where that is?"

"Oh yes, you're not too far now," the woman replied. "I'm heading further north but I can leave you where the road branches off for the town, if you'd like. It's a short walk from there into the town."

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Mark said gratefully, stretching out his tired legs. The woman flicked the reins and the donkey in front of the cart started moving again with an irritable snort. "I've been walking since Bellingham."

The woman glanced at him in surprise. "That far? You poor thing. So why are you heading to Haresaw?"

Mark tugged at his moustache uneasily. "I'm up from London and I'm trying to find someone who will house my daughter to get her away from the bombings. She's eighteen, you see, so the council said she was too old to evacuate with the other children."

"It's so sad, all those children being sent away from their homes," the woman said, tsking and shaking her head sadly. "I've got three little ones staying with my husband and me, the oldest one's only eleven. The poor little doves were so scared when they came to me."

The woman continued to prattle away about the three little siblings who were housed with her as the cart rolled down the road. Mark was only half-listening as they rode on, taking advantage of the ride to give his sore muscles a break. He was a medic, not a soldier. Even with the basic military training he had picked up on the base, he still wasn't quite used to the amount of walking he'd done in the past few days.

He spotted a narrow road branching off theirs and he sat up expectantly, but the older woman didn't slow the cart. "Wasn't that it there?" he asked in confusion.

"No, Haresaw is a bit further on," she said. He noticed that as she glanced over at the side road there was a frown on her face. "That leads up to this old manor house that belonged to the Westmoors. They owned all of the land up here once. The house is abandoned now, I think. At least we haven't heard any word from the family in ages."

They rode on in silence for another half hour, and then another road appeared off to the other side, much wider than the first. The older woman slowed the cart as they reached the road. "Good luck," she said as he adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

"Thank you for the ride," he said. As soon as the cart stopped he stood and jumped down to the road. He tossed a wave to her over his shoulder as he started toward the town, which was already visible from the beginning of the roadway.

The next few hours were a monotonous blur; he walked up and down the streets of the little secluded town, talking to everyone that he could, but no one seemed to be of much help. Some told him that they had already taken on wards, some made obvious excuses, but by the time he had finished he still hadn't found anyone who was willing to take in Isabelle, even when he offered a decent sum in compensation. The air had grown thick and cold, and the sky had filled with dark, roiling clouds. He wouldn't have much time to find a place for the night before the storm set in.

He walked briskly to the last remaining house, a small manor set off from the road slightly and surrounded in flowering bushes. There was a stable-house beside it, the front doors opened to reveal a cart and a row of stall doors. Parked on the lawn was a wagon that seemed to have had better days, since most of it's left side was crushed apart. A man, likely not much older than Mark himself, was dressed in a heavy coat and hammering away at the frame of the stable's double-doors. "Pardon me?" Mark shouted as he jogged up the dirt path toward him.

There was a particularly loud bang and the man let out a stream of curses. He turned around and stood just as Mark reached him, and the other man had a fierce scowl on his face. "Wha'cho want, then?" he asked in a rough Northern brogue, cradling one hand to his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Mark said quickly. "You all right, mate?"

"Wha'cho want?" the man repeated tersely.

"I just wanted to speak to the owner of the house. I live in London with my daughter, and I'm hoping to find someone who will let her come stay with them so I can get her out of the city," Mark explained for the millionth time.

"We don't have room here," the man said. "Already got a city kid staying 'round and wreckin' everythin'."

"But this house is so large," Mark pleaded. "The government won't evacuate her because she's over eighteen, but I can't stand leaving her in the city with all of the bombings. And now I'm being deployed and she's got no other family, I don't want to leave her all on her own. Please, she's a good girl, real smart, and she can help you out around the house."

The man shook his head, brandishing the hammer he'd been using dismissively. "No, I'm not havin' any more you city types around 'ere," he said.

"Please, sir-" Mark started up the other man cut him off.

"You wanna find someone who can 'fford to take on 'nother person, you go up the road and try Westmoor," the man told him. "Got tons of rooms and money."

"Isn't that place abandoned?" Mark asked, recognising the name that the woman on the cart had said.

"Nah, just keeps to 'imself, I think," the man said. "There's been horses up there, and I've seen lights up there sometimes. If you head out now, you can pro'lly get there 'fore the rain starts." With that the man tipped his hat and walked into the house, ignoring Mark's shout after him.

With nothing else to do, Mark headed back toward the centre of town. He remembered passing the Westmoor manor house on his way to Haresaw and he thought that he could make it there within the hour. If he was lucky the rain would hold out long enough for him to make it there. It was worth a shot, and if it didn't work then he'd move on in the morning.

Mark stopped at the postman's shop and slipped inside. He pulled a piece of paper from the pad in his bag and borrowed a pen from the postman to write out a quick letter to Isabelle. Once the letter had been sealed in an envelope and handed over to the postman, to be sent out with the post cart in the morning, he headed out of town the same way he'd come in.

He reached the road that led to Westmoor manor just as the sun set and the clouds decided to open up. Mark pulled his coat up around his ears and stayed close to the treeline in a vain attempt to keep dry, aided slightly by the tunnel-like weave of the branches overhead. The manor house was only just visible from the main road, a hulking Gothic masterpiece with sharp turrets and snarling gargoyles on the parapets. It was beautiful, in the same haunted and menacing way as a cemetery.

The massive iron gate at the entrance to the property was propped partially open, wide enough for Mark to slip through. Rolling acres of lush grass that came up to Mark's knees swept up toward the house and overgrown gardens edged the entire left side of the building, smothering the stone walls that were built to contain them. It was hard to make out details in the shadows that had fallen over everything beneath the cover of the clouds, but it also made it possible to see the faint glow of firelight coming from one of the lower windows. The other man had been right: someone lived there.

Even though he ran, Mark was soaked through and shivering by the time he reached the front doors of the massive house. He huddled beneath the small shelter provided by the ornate doorframe and hammered on the giant oak doors hopefully. No one answered, so he shouted, "Hello," and pounded harder. Several minutes later he was just beginning to think that perhaps there was no one inside and the firelight had been a trick of his mind, when one of the doors slowly swung inward with an ominous creak. He peered through the doorway but there was no one filling the opening.

"Hello?" Mark called out cautiously and he stepped inside. Beyond the door was a cavernous entrance hall of polished marble and sweeping, double staircases that led to the higher floor. Tapestries adorned the walls, holes worn in the intricate needlework by time and nature, and the remaining spaces were filled with paintings whose canvases were so heavily coated with dust that their subjects were inscrutable. A door stood open on the other end of the hall and a soft, orange glow was seeping out across the floor in a fan-shape. "Is anyone here?" Mark shouted.

There was a soft, scuffling sound from the room but no one answered. Had an animal wandered into the house? Shifting his bag around behind his back to free up his hands just in case, Mark headed toward the room tentatively. As he got closer he heard the gentle flickering of a fire and the air warmed around him. Freezing, Mark hurried the last few steps to the door and pushed it open. The room was a small, comfortable sitting room, with a semi-circle of plush armchairs and settees around a large fireplace. Waves of heated air swept over him and Mark couldn't contain himself any longer. He raced over to the kneel beside the mantle, holding his hands out above the flames and rubbing his frigid fingers together.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Mark spun around on his knees so quickly he nearly slipped backwards into the fireplace. His eyes flicked around the room but he didn't spot anyone. "Who's there?" he asked, standing up and clenching his fists defensively. "Show yourself."

"I don't mean to scare you, sir," the voice, a smooth tenor with a rumbling lilt, spoke up again. Mark couldn't be certain, but it seemed to be coming from the cluster of shadows in the corner behind the door. "But you shouldn't be here for long. Warm yourself and go. He won't like you being here, he doesn't like visitors."

"Who? What's going on?" Mark pressed. "Please, I didn't mean to trespass, but I need help."

"No, not here, sir," the voice said. There was a faint shifting in the shadows and Mark narrowed his eyes, trying to pick out the figure. "You won't find any help here. Please, just go while you can."

"I don't like talking to thin air," Mark said and he took several steps toward the corner where he'd seen the movement. He stopped abruptly as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he saw the silhouette of the figure. It seemed to be human at first glance, but the longer he stared the more he noticed that didn't seem right. There were long, lean angles to the face, curved shaped protruding from the top of the head, and - what was that behind him?

"This isn't a safe place to be," the voice said. He must've known that he'd been seen because he stepped forward into the glow of the firelight. Mark gasped and staggered backward, colliding with one of the armchairs in his haste. "You see now, this place is not normal. You should leave before he hears you. Hurry."

"What-?" The words fell into silence as the doors to the room suddenly slammed open and were filled with a shape of nightmares. Mark stumbled and fell into a heap on the floor, crawling backwards until he bumped into the hearth and couldn't retreat any further. "Oh God!"

"What are you doin' here!" The bestial roar shook the room and Mark couldn't help the startled shriek that left him. "Why are you in my home?!"

"Please, I was just looking for help," Mark stammered in horror. "I'm sorry, but the storm-" The figure snarled, baring inch long fangs. "I'm sorry, I'll leave, I didn't-"

"You want shelter?" the figure shouted and stepped forward. Lit from below by the smoldering fire, it was like staring up into the face of the devil. Mark was pulled to his feet as a clawed hand wrapped around his collar, lifting him straight from the ground. "I'll give you a place to stay."

Mark fought to escape but the hand that held his shirt was too strong as it dragged him from the room. Stone walls flew passed him in a blur and the temperature plummeted as they descended several sets of stairs. Mark's legs crumpled beneath him as he was thrown, rolling into a stone wall. There was a resounding clang and Mark looked up to see an iron-barred door snap shut, trapping him inside of a small stone cell. All he could see through the window in the door was a pair of fierce, ice-blue eyes.

"And you can rot in here!" the monster screamed and then the eyes disappeared, leaving Mark alone in the dark prison cell.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

_London, England - One Week Later_

In the wake of her father's departure, Isabelle's life quickly fell into a new, familiar rhythm. First thing in the morning she would go to the bookstore and help Mr. Cartwright to open the shop. Through the morning she would watch the front desk and assist the few customers who wandered in. In the early afternoon the Frenchman Adrian Roberts would come by during his midday break, and they would share lunch over a cheerful conversation.

After he had returned to his shift at the factory, Isabelle would spend the second half of the day in the back rooms, sorting through old books and paperwork. This was both because Mr. Cartwright felt guilty that she was working so many hours at the same position, and also because it gave her a chance to avoid the Captain and his continued advances. When the bookshop closed for the night, Isabelle would head home and eagerly find the letter from her father, which she would read before going to bed.

The absence of her father had left a dull ache in her. She spent as little time at their flat as possible to avoid the emptiness and the silence. Isabelle had spent very little time alone in her life, and especially since her mother's death she had never gone more than a day or two away from her father. The daily letters from her father had become a comfort and solace, a small connection to the little bit of family she had left. Although the news was never good, her father continued to sound optimistic. She kept all of the short letters tucked into her mother's old book and re-read them all every night, consoled by their familiarity.

"Miss Isabelle, you are all right?" Adrian's curious question made her look up, startled out of her musing. "You look sad," he continued gently.

"I miss my father," she admitted. "And I'm worried about him. I haven't gotten a letter in days, and he promised he would write every day. And he's supposed to be back soon, he's being deployed in just a few days."

"Maybe 'e is busy?" Adrian offered. "Maybe 'e is finding a 'ouse and 'e does not 'ave time to write. Or maybe 'e is on 'is way 'ome now, yes?"

"Maybe," she agreed half-heartedly, not even convincing to her own ears.

Adrian sighed sadly as he glanced up at the clock. "I 'ave to go, I will be late," he said. "You see your father tonight, yes, you see. And you stay 'ere in city, and I will keep you safe. We keep each other safe."

Isabelle smiled, reaching out to squeeze the Frenchman's hand fondly. "That sounds wonderful," she said. "Have a good day, Adrian."

"Au revoir, mademoiselle," he returned before slipping out of the shop doors on his way back to the warehouse. She had grown close to be fast friends with the French immigrant in the time since they had met, confiding in each other the truths they dared tell no one else. Isabelle confessed her desire to travel and to have grand adventures, as well as her crippling fear of being separated from her father. In return, Adrian had told her about his escape from France, how his parents had been taken to an internment camp for the golden stars around their necks, and how he had gotten a letter from his brother telling him to flee to Britain and that they would meet again there. It had been six months and he had gotten no word from his brother since. Odds were that the older Roberts brother had not managed to evade the German armies, a fact they both knew but never spoke aloud.

Slumping on the stool behind the counter, she opened her book and pulled out her father's last letter, post-dated a week prior.

_Dearest Bells,_

_There are such isolated, beautiful villages here in the north. I think you might like them. Today I'm in a place called Haresaw, completely surrounded by trees. There are already lots of children in the houses. A kind man pointed me toward a manor house just outside of town. I'll go there once I've sent this. I have a good feeling about it._

_I miss you and I'll see you soon, love._

A week had passed since he'd written and she still hadn't heard anything from him. She wanted to convince herself that the letter had simply been delayed that perhaps the isolated town only shipped out their mail every few days, but she couldn't get rid of the anxiety that had knotted in her stomach. Something was wrong and with each day the feeling only got worse.

"Belle," Mr. Cartwright's voice startled Isabelle and she hastily folded her father's letter again. He gave her a kind, reassuring smile. "I'm going to start locking up the store. I told you this morning," he added at her confused glance. "Marie isn't feeling well, and I said I'd go home to take care of her."

"Oh, yes, of course," she said quickly. She tucked the letter away with the others in the back of her book and stood up. "Sorry, I was distracted."

"Your father," the bookshop owner said and it wasn't a question. "You still haven't heard anything from him?" Isabelle sighed and shook her head. Mr. Cartwright gave her a sad smile and squeezed her shoulder affectionately. "Don't worry, dove, he's probably on his way home already."

"Yeah, maybe," Isabelle agreed the same way she had when Adrian had suggested the same thing. "Well give Marie my best. I hope she is feeling better in the morning. I'll see you tomorrow." She could tell that Mr. Cartwright wanted to say more, but she smiled as brightly as she could manage and then walked out of the front of the shop. As she headed for home she wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself, her mind far away with her father in the Northern forests. What could have happened to him to stop him from writing to her? Had he run out of money already? Had he gotten into trouble? Was he ill? Worse?

No, she refused to let herself think that.

A hand landed on her shoulder and Isabelle nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning around in a panic from her would-be attacker. "Easy there, doll," the Captain said, holding up his hands in mock-surrender. Isabelle let out a heavy breath, placing a hand on her racing heart. "Didn't mean to scare you. What are you doing out of work so early? Did that shop finally close down?"

Isabelle frowned. "No, we closed early."

The Captain nodded but he didn't seem too pleased by the news. "I was wonderin' what was going on with that place," he said. "Seems like every time I've come to see you lately he's had you off on some errand."

"We've had a busy week," she lied and then turned and started walking for home again.

"I was actually just on my way to find you," the Captain responded, falling into step beside her and setting a hand in the small of her back. "What did your father say about us getting married?"

"I haven't heard back from him yet," Isabelle said, grimacing anxiously. She wasn't about to tell the Captain that she hadn't sent a letter to him at all, since she had no address at which to reach him.

"Well he had better hurry," the Captain said. "He's set to deploy in just a few days."

"I know," she said. Honestly that thought hadn't been far from her mind since he had left, and it only made things worse. Even if she did hear back from him in the next few days, the odds were that she wouldn't actually get a chance to see him before he had to leave. The next time she would see him was not for another year when he returned from battle. If he returned... No, she couldn't think like that either.

"I think he's on his way home now, and that's why he hasn't written," she finished, adding on the same hopeful lie that everyone else had offered to her.

"Of course he is," the Captain agreed immediately, his enthusiasm skyrocketing again. "No doubt he hoped on a train the minute he got your letter. I have the marriage license ready and waiting for us, so as soon as he gets back into town we can be married. Then you can be on a plane to America at the same time that he ships off. You'll love it in New York, darlin'. A pretty girl like you will have the time of your life in such a lively place, and my sister is just a bit younger than you. You'll love her."

Isabelle couldn't argue that New York City sounded like a wonderful place, and she wanted to visit it so badly, but not under these circumstances. And she highly doubted that anyone related to Captain Allred could be pleasant. "I guess I should spend the afternoon packing up my things then," she said, trying to fake excitement. Her mind was already racing miles ahead of her, far away from their conversation.

"There's a good girl," the Captain said cheerfully, using the arm on her waist to give her an awkward, sideways squeeze. "And I'll come by after the end of my shift, and we can get everything else sorted."

The Captain escorted her the rest of the way back to her flat, his hand firmly planted in the small of her back. He talked the whole time and thankfully didn't care that she hardly responded, content to just talk at her after everything that came to his mind. Isabelle meanwhile was making plans of her own, completely separate from the wedding plans that the Captain was making. She was surprised when they stopped in front of the door to her flat.

"I've got to head back to the base, but I'll see you tonight," the Captain said, turning her to face him. Before she had time to process what was happening, he had leaned in and pressed a kiss right at the corner of her mouth. When he straightened up, he grinned and winked roguishly, and then with a quick, " 'Til tonight, darlin'," he turned on his heel and walked out of the building.

For a few minutes, Isabelle just stood in front of the door, trying to process what had happened. Had he really-? He had already jumped to the conclusion that they would be married, despite her telling him otherwise, and now he was already planning their wedding and had the audacity to try and kiss her. Isabelle shuddered and turned, letting herself into the flat.

Without wasting any time, she headed straight into her bedroom and pulled out her small travel bag. She folded a change of clothes into the bottom, and set her toiletries, her battered book, her little stationary set, and a prepared package of food on top of them. Then she slipped into her father's room and opened the drawer in his bedside table, where he'd left the stack of pound notes that would buy her a train ticket north once he'd found a place for her. She tucked them into the top of the bag, donned her warmest coat and sturdiest shoes, and took one last look around the flat.

She was done sitting around and waiting. Something was wrong with her father and she was going to find out what it was. She wasn't going to simply sit around and wait for things to work themselves out.

Picking up the bag, she locked up the flat behind her, well aware that it might be the last time she saw it for months. She squared her shoulders and then left the building, heading straight for the train station. She had the name of the last place her father had been, the small town called Haresaw, and he had told her where he'd be going next. She was going to follow his trail until she found him, no matter how long it took.

A handful of soldiers patrolling the train station eyed her curiously as she walked up to the counter and purchased a ticket to Bellingham, the closest station to her destination. "Leaves at two o'clock, love," the man behind the counter said. Isabelle nodded gratefully and then walked over to an empty bench on the platform. There was less than an hour until the train was set to depart, and she had one last thing she wanted to do before she left. She pulled out a piece of paper and her pen, using her book as a writing surface.

_Dear Mr. Cartwright,_

_I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to find my father. I know there's something wrong and I can't just wait around anymore. I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye. As soon as I find him and get settled, I'll write you again to let you know. Thank you for everything._

She stared at the short paragraph for a long time, trying to think if there was anything else she should add. It felt inadequate, sending him a short note in exchange for everything that he had done for her, especially since her father had left, but she didn't have the time for anything better. She couldn't wait another day. With a sigh, she signed the bottom and then folded the letter into an envelope. She hastily scrawled the address of the bookshop on the front and then stood up and approached the group of soldiers who had been staring at her.

"Hello there, miss," a tall, blonde man said, stepping forward from his friends and grinning. "There something I can do for you?"

"Actually yes, if you wouldn't mind," she said. She didn't appreciate the way he was looking at her, but she needed the help. "I need this letter delivered, but I won't have the time to get there and back before my train boards. I don't reckon one of you could take it for me?"

The man cocked his head to the side and eyed her up and down, in a way oddly reminiscent of the Captain. "Well sure, I suppose I could do that," he said, mock pensive. "But you know, if I'm doin' a favour for you, it's only fair that you return it, don't you think?"

"I have a bit of money, I can pay," she said, reaching for her bag. She really didn't like the look he was giving her.

"Nah, money doesn't do me any good," he said and shrugged. "You know what I'd really like? How 'bout a little kiss?"

Isabelle stepped back, scowling, and had just rared herself to shout at him when one of his companions pushed forward, a thin, freckled red-head with a distinct Irish brogue. "Leave her alone, you ponce," the second man said, elbowing his friend hard in the side. "Having to snog your ugly face isn't worth it." As the other men laughed at the blonde's expense, the second man turned to Isabelle. "Sorry about him, he's just playin'," he said. "I'll take that letter for you, if you like. I can drop it off as soon as we finish our shift here tonight."

"Thank you, I'd really appreciate it," she said and she set the envelope in his extended hand. "It's a bookshop, the address is on the front. It'll be locked up, but if you could just stick it under the door...?"

"No trouble, miss," the red-head replied and tucked the envelope into the pocket of his uniform. "Anything for a pretty lady. So, you headed out of the city?"

"Up north," she agreed, nodding.

"Don't blame you there," he said and looked around the dingy station with a frown. "London's not a good place for anyone right now." They both turned as the train's whistle split the air, announcing its approach to the station. "That'll be your train, I reckon? Would you like an escort? To make sure none of these ruffians-" he gestured over his shoulder at the other soldiers, who protested loudly, "harass you, of course."

Isabelle cast a half-glance at the other soldiers and then nodded. "Thank you, that's very kind of you," she said. The red-head marched alongside her as they crossed the platform and joined the small queue waiting for the train to pull up to the station. "Are you sure I can't offer you a little money for delivering that letter for me?"

The soldier smiled and shook his head. "Don't bother yourself, miss," he said genially. "I reckon people ought to do nice things for each other more often. We wouldn't get stuck in as many of these wars in the end that way, me thinks." He paused as the screech of the train's brakes filled the station. "Besides," he added when it had finally quieted again, "I don't know how much longer it'll be before I get sent out to fight, but I know the odds of all us chaps coming back isn't high. I'd rather be remembered for being a nice bloke, you know?"

Isabelle felt her heart break for the sweet boy and his frank acceptance of the possibility of his death. "There's nothing I can do to thank you?" she asked.

"Well," he said and grinned, "I know that it's a long shot, but how about this? If you and I ever come back to London, you look me up and let me take you for a dance. No promises, no commitments just a dance. Yeah?"

"That sounds lovely," she said. The train whistle sounded again and she jumped in surprise. The people that had been queued up around her had all boarded the train and she felt her heart leap. It was time. "Thank you again," she said and grasped his forearm. She leaned forward onto her toes and placed a shallow kiss against his cheek before turning and climbing aboard the train.

Most of the travellers had already settled into carriages. Isabelle wandered down the corridor, peering curiously into doors until she found an empty carriage halfway down the train. She shut the door behind her and took a seat by the window, laying her bag on the cushion beside her. Pushing back the thread-bare curtains, she peered out onto the platform. The red-haired soldier was still standing in the same place she'd left him and she watched his eyes panning down the line of windows. She waved and a few seconds later his eyes landed on her.

Grinning, he gestured for her to open the window. She fought with the old clasp for a minute before finally managing to tug the small window pane open. The soldier cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "I never got your name, miss."

"Isabelle," she called back through the smoky air. "Isabelle Prentiss."

"Lovely to meet you Miss Isabelle," he said. "Liam O'Donoghue." The train whistle carved through the air again and he glanced ahead at the engine before turning back to her. "So I'll see you when this is all over, yeah?"

"We'll go dancing," she agreed, even as a heavy weight settled in her chest. "Thank you again."

"No, Miss," he shouted as the train's wheels groaned and started moving. "Thank you!" The train picked up speed but she kept her eyes on the red-haired soldier until the platform disappeared in the smoke. Somehow she knew that they would never see each other again, and they would never share that night of dancing. Closing the window, she leaned back in her seat and prayed that somehow he would make it home safely. Just like her father would.

Her mind filled with thoughts of her missing father again, she didn't notice when the London skyline outside the windows diminished and was replaced by rolling fields. It was hours later before she realised that she had missed her opportunity for one last look at the city she had always called home, and that it might be a very long time before she saw it again. If it was still there to see when everything was said and done.

Isabelle shook herself. There was no reason to think like that. Not yet. Opening her bag, she pulled out her worn book and dove back into her favoured sanctuary of Pemberley.


End file.
